White Snow Red
by phollie
Summary: It is no longer there. / Vincent and Gilbert - the first test of immortality. Pre-tragedy. T for blood.


Ssssssspooky.

Lyrics are "Winter White Hymnal" by Fleet Foxes.

* * *

**.white snow red**

/

_and i turned 'round and there you go_  
_and michael, you will fall_  
_and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime_

/

Vincent supposes snow on its own is all well and good, but it's truly Gilbert that makes it anything worthwhile. He looks magnificent in all the white, the black of his hair brilliantly dark amidst a portrait of such paleness. He stands out like a spot of ink on a white page, and when he turns and smiles at Vincent, his eyes are so bright and he looks so happy that Vincent is touched with a sensation of being on the precipice of crying.

It's the first snow of the season, and it strikes Sablier with such intensity that the entirety of the city is blanketed in perfect silver. The Baskerville manor is splendid, omnipotent, even a tad frightening in its grand beauty. Vincent tries not to look at it for too long, lest he start feeling terribly small beneath it all, so small he fears he could be swallowed whole if he dares to look up at the pointed roofs, vast windows, and the solitary tower that gleams and twinkles with ice. But it's not just that fear which has him focusing on Gilbert and nothing else – he likes looking at his brother, likes seeing him dash through the garden and kick up massive tufts of snow that explode into clouds of white in the air. Gilbert is laughing, and his cheeks are flushed pink from the chill, and Vincent can only stand beneath a bare tree and watch him, dazzled.

"Vince!" Gilbert calls out, breathless with laughter as he runs over to Vincent. "Vince, you have to see for yourself how wonderful it is! Don't just stand there!"

Vincent swallows and looks out at the snow with wary eyes. "But isn't there ice everywhere…?"

Gilbert gives an enthusiastic nod of his head and wipes his runny nose with the sleeve of his coat. "Yes, and it's brilliant! You have to see!" He reaches out his hand, his mitten caked with frost, and all Vincent can do is stare at it, holding his breath and wondering if he should take it or not. But Gilbert seems to decide that he's through with waiting when he grabs hold of Vincent's hand on his own, tugging him away from the barren tree and out into the sea of white. Vincent stumbles and trips on clods of snow, but Gilbert holds him upright and keeps him on his feet as he leads him along the hollowed-out trail he'd created with his wild kicks and sprints. Vincent pleads with him to stop running, already out of breath from his tiny body being much weaker than his brother's, but Gilbert only looks back at him and flashes a wondrous grin that could thaw the winter-white sky overhead and leave nothing but brilliant color in its wake. Sometimes Vincent thinks Gilbert could burn down the stars if he wanted to; he could rival those soft little lights he'd see at night, the lights he'd reach out to touch as if they were tiny, delicate universes to hold within the palm of his hand…

Gilbert stops running only when Vincent is thrown into a coughing fit, wheezing and clutching at his chest as the frigid air stings at his throat and lungs. His eyes water so much that Gilbert is reduced to a fuzzy blur hovering in front of him, hands on his shoulders and peering closely at him with eyes that are still bright even behind Vincent's fog of tears. "Vince? Vince, are you okay?"

Vincent gives a quick nod and tries to catch his breath. It's slowly coming back to him, but the cold air has his lungs clenching and aching, and his feeble ribcage is burning from the exertion that his body can't accommodate for. Gilbert's body can, but that's because Gilbert is perfect, which is all the explanation Vincent has ever needed. Nevertheless, he feels embarrassed and quite silly now, wheezing and shaking like a little mouse.

But the fog over his eyes clears and lets him see Gilbert smiling again, radiant and wonderful in all the paleness of the silver sunlight. He grabs Vincent's hand and turns back around to lead the way, moving much too quickly for Vincent's legs to keep up with. His hand slips, separating them, and it's right then that Vincent is stricken with a horrible, sudden sinking in his stomach which speaks of something very, very bad about to happen, something he can't fathom into words. In a panic, he calls out Gilbert's name, reaching for him.

Gilbert turns to look at him, and it's in that moment he slips.

It doesn't happen quickly. Vincent always assumed hideous, horrific things would be like that, occurring within the blink of an eye and unable to be stopped or witnessed in their entirety, but this is nothing like that. It happens slowly, dazedly, heavily. Sound washes out to silence. Every second is stretched out and elongated, and the fall of Gilbert's body is almost elegant, the speed of its descent slowed down to such a degree that Vincent can see the exact moment in which the confusion in his brother's eyes turns to fear, can see his mouth parting in a silent scream, can see the sharp, icy point of a branch jutting from the dead rosebush pierce his throat and sink in, in, in…

Gilbert's body goes still and sickeningly stiff as his fall is broken by the snowy barricade of the rosebush. The branch juts out from the back of his neck a good four or five inches, the fall having been so clean and direct that scarcely a drop of blood stains it.

Vincent can only stand there, a boy paralyzed in the face of shock. It's only when the first drop of blood drips from the hole in Gilbert's throat and stains the snow a bright red that he realizes he isn't having a nightmare. This is real. He did this. A horrified scream bubbles in his throat as he stumbles backwards until he meets the garden wall, his hand clasped over his mouth to keep from throwing up. Gilbert is looking at him, just looking at him out the corner of one wide, petrified eye as he tries to weakly mouth Vincent's name, but all that comes out is a sick gurgle which makes Vincent's stomach churn and his blood turn to ice. He needs to find help. He needs to find someone to make this all stop, but he can't very well leave Gilbert here all alone. The blood is dripping faster onto the snow in audible little patters, the sound like tiny birds' feet. God, god, what should he do?

But there comes the sound of soft, muffled conversation and approaching footsteps, which are at first slow and leisurely as the figures of Glen and Jack emerge from round the garden wall, only to hasten the moment Glen sees the sight unfolding down the pathway. Jack is close at his heels, looking less grave and moreso softly curious, but his calm-as-water expression is dented into a dull, detached shock at the sight of Gilbert bleeding out onto the snow. But Vincent watches as that shock dies down into Jack's customary whimsy when his eyes soften again. Glen is mumbling something beneath his breath that Vincent, too dazed, doesn't make out, but Jack's voice rings out like a bell when he says, "Oh, well that's not so dismal. It's not as if it would even leave a scar."

"I am aware of that," Glen says sharply, kneeling before Gilbert and surveying the wound. Vincent can see Gilbert looking at Glen with such quiet desperation that the sight of it makes him break down into tears, going to Jack and burying his face into the soft fabric of his coat. He can't look upon this scene anymore. He doesn't want for this to be happening. He wants for Gilbert to be smiling and laughing and holding his hand again; he doesn't want him hurt and pierced and afraid, all because Vincent had called out his name.

"Take Vincent back inside," Glen instructs. "I will take care of this."

Jack gives a quiet hum of understanding before scooping Vincent up into his arms, cradling him against his chest like some delicate parcel that needs to be carried and protected. Vincent is crying so hard he can barely breathe, yet Jack only sighs out an airy laugh and croons that his tears are unnecessary, that Gilbert will be just fine, and it's with such surprising certainty in his voice that Vincent comes to believe his every quiet, soothing word just enough for his sobs to fade into broken little hiccups of breath.

The next half hour is a blur. Glen returns from the washroom with a shivering but still undeniably alive Gilbert, dressed in clean clothes and considerably less horrific of a sight than he'd been before. Vincent is waiting nervously by the door when they return and jolts to his feet to follow Glen. He's just about to whimper out a question of whether Gilbert is okay before his brother drops down a hand to him, smiling weakly from beneath the crook of Glen's arm. "Vince," he murmurs, soft and shaken, "I'm all right."

Vincent grabs hold of Gilbert's hand and doesn't let go until Glen lays him out on his bed, bidding a quiet instruction for him to rest. After the man has left and closed the door, Vincent clambers up into bed with his brother and curls himself around him, as if his poor, pathetic body could somehow shield Gilbert's from ever being hurt again. It never could, and for that, he apologizes over and over again until his words spiral down into unintelligible weeping, but when Gilbert turns his head to look at him, something catches his eye.

Glen hadn't bandaged the wound on Gilbert's neck – only because the wound is no longer there. Not a single speck of blood mars his skin. Not a scratch, not a welt, not even so much as a bruise. Nothing but a memory that Vincent now finds himself doubting ever truly happened at all.

Gilbert reverts back to his usual self within the day, for the most part. He's wary about going back out to the snow, and there's a newfound uneasiness in his eyes that hadn't been there before, but he shows no sign of physical pain. Come suppertime, he's smiling again, but a cold sickness still sits heavily in Vincent's stomach at the memory which plays itself round and round in his mind. It's as if the entire ordeal had been a dream, or a frightening train of thought that Vincent's overactive imagination is capable of conjuring at any given moment, petrifying him down to his very core. The only evidence that the event ever happened is the bloodstained snow of the garden two stories directly below the brothers' bedroom window.


End file.
